


"This is why I am The King"

by silver_pixie



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Violence, Dom/sub, M/M, S&M, Sexual Violence, Thranduil is awesome, Thranduil's mind is a maze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_pixie/pseuds/silver_pixie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Say something”, pleads Elrond.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>“How could you let me do this to you? Why would you let me do this to you? How can you stand still as a statue while somebody rips your body to shreds? The pain must be terrible. You don’t say a word, you don’t flinch, you don’t even change your expression, you just take it…”  Elrond’s voice is raising, his heart speeding up. He wants none of it, so he trails off. Besides, this has no point, Thranduil’s face is an unresponsive mask.</p><p>“That is why I am The King.” Thranduil’s words come slowly, quietly but are clear, and as silken as ever. His voice is horse, but it does not shake.  And Elrond understands that he speaks quietly simply because he feels no need to shout. The King is still on his knees, but he might as well be sitting on his throne. </p><p>Thranduil makes him wait before he continues, “As to why? Because I can take it and you apparently need it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	"This is why I am The King"

Elrond heard his footsteps down the stone corridor, heard him dismiss Elrond’s personal guards like they were his own, like he had the right to. Heard the guards object, then concede. Amazing. Absolutely bloody incredible. He had seen this before, watching him from afar. People talked, called him this and that, often excluded him from major decisions, hurled a hundred obvious and subtle insults in his direction, but when he showed up in flesh and blood, few could endure his stare, and fewer dared refuse him. Few of his own rank, certainly no guard ever would. 

So, Thranduil, the King of Mirkwood, walked into Lord Elrond’s private chambers with quick, sure steps and unannounced, and removing his coat dusty from travel, tossed it over a chair like he owned the place, precisely like he did everything else. He was on his way to embrace his host without having yet glanced forwared, when an icy current passed through him and made him look up. He stopped in the middle of the room. Elrond was standing ten steps from him stretched to his full height, hands behind his back. “If looks could kill”, thought Thranduil, annoyance brimming to the surface. Elrond had called, had been calling, and he had come, and now he was faced with this. But he pushed the irritation down, retaining a friendly smile. He would let Elrond talk before he let his generally good mood be destroyed. 

“So… you decided your precious time allowed for a visit”, Elrond’s words are acid. If he knew why he was behaving like a petulant child, he could stop, but he doesn’t, and damn him, he can’t stop. “Mirkwood must be truly a desperate place, or an irresistible one.”

Thranduil’s features flip to unreadable, his face morphing into an expressionless mask, his eyes into the frozen grey tundra, behind them the black void. This horseshit he is having none of. Not from anyone, especially not from one older and by all accounts wiser than himself.

But the seven devils have possesed Elrond today. It’s been a bad week, a bad month, a bad goddamn year, and then this arrogant Mirkwood feary thought that he could take him to his bed, promise friendship, companionship, then ignore him for nearly a year. So he ignores the deadly stillness which has fallen over Thranduil and rounds in on him, “So, how many have been in your bed since you dragged me into it?” 

Thranduil clearly remembers that Elrond walked in on his own, willingly, under no spell, blackmail or threat. Furthermore, who is or is not in his bed and when is none of Elrond’s concern. But he doesn’t miss a beat, only says, “Nobody has been in my bed, Elrond. I couldn’t come. Unlike your protected, safe existence here, Mirkwood is a dangerous place, a border zone, in which my people fight and die so that yours do not have to. This you well know.” Elrond does, when he choses to remember, even if he does not like saying it. But today is not one of those days. 

“Oh, your bed is sacred. Of course. That’s no surprise actually. Your arrogance would not allow otherwise. Let me rephrase the question - how many have you fucked? How many of your venerable guard? You like them best, don’t you? In the corridors? In the dungeons? In your precious Mirkwood? Or do you go to their rooms?” “Fair questions, possibly amusing, even insightful”, thinks Thranduil, “in other circumstances”. He has done all of those things. Maybe he even has reasons for doing them, other than the obvious. But he hasn’t done them recently, he does not feel like explaining anything, and he does not find the interrogation amusing. “I haven’t fucked anyone, either”, is all that the king supplies, his expression granite, not betraying how quickly and how dangerously he is getting tired of this. And Elrond doesn’t know how thin the ice he is standing on had just become. The King of Mirkwood doesn’t much care for his so called “reputation”. Conventional propriety and morality are concepts he finds a little ridiculous and not a little hypocritical. But he’ll be damned if he’ll allow anybody to insult his guards, his warriors, his people. 

“Interesting. Considering you’re a slut and everybody knows it. Let’s try one last question – are you going to deny ordering some woodland elf to open their mouth for you until they’re swallowing your seed on some late night as well if I ask you? Next you’ll be telling me you’re a virgin.” Elrond laughs derisively, but in the back of his mind he’s well aware that he is hoping for denial, even if it’s a lie. Thranduil tosses his hair over his shoulder, looks directly into Elrond’s eyes and speaks the truth, “No, I am not going to deny that.” 

The blow to his exposed face comes swift and hard. “Whore”, Elrond hisses, stepping back within the arch of the same movement, expecting to be struck back. But Thranduil doesn’t move to strike him. He has become a living statue, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Elrond. If he had moved, if he had said anything in his defense, tried to reason with Elrond, gone after him physically, if he had done anything, Elrond would have snapped out of his madness. But Thranduil didn’t, so Elrond didn’t. In retrospect, Elrond was sure Thranduil knew, must have know, that this moment was when the lifeline to sanity was cut, and the king cut it deliberately, and stepped over the threshold fully aware. Because he wanted to set Elrond free. 

As it was, Elrond lost the remnants of his composure. “How many? Did you like it?”, he roared grabbing Thranduil by the throat and shoving him back first onto a large table he normally used for work. Thranduil landed on his elbows sending manuscripts, books, and loose papers flying. 

“Do I ever do anything I don’t like?”, he gasped as his trachea were being crushed. But he didn’t fight back. He didn’t stop Elrond from hitting him again either. For a moment Elrond paused, wondering why Thranduil was not fighting him, considered that perhaps Thranduil was actually sorry. But no, Thranduil was not sorry, the Mirkwood king had no shame. 

Thranduil was not ashamed, or sorry, he was somewhere between amused, curious and completely unapologetic. Elrond did not offend him, could not offend him. Names others called him, what they thought of him rolled off him like water, he didn’t care, had stopped caring long centuries ago, but he would not apologize to anyone either. Not for something completely irrelevant. And this was irrelevant. Elrond was not his lover, he had no obligations towards him. This was stupid. But Elrond was also a friend, and he was obviously distraught. Thranduil could not yet figure out the reason, but he would give release to Elrond’s frustration, whether he was actually the direct cause of it, which, in Thranduil’s mind was doubtful, or not. He did not call many friend. And so he decided to take whatever Elrond would serve.

Elrond for his part was growing in equal part furious and aroused. The beautiful king drove him mad with his refusal to bow to anyone, ever. He put his hands on Thranduil’s hips and pulled him to the edge of the table, legs spread apart so that Thranduil’s groin collided with his hardening erection. He ground into him, grabbed him by the back of the neck to bring their heads together and whispered against Thranduil’s lips, low, menacing, “If you’re going to be a whore, you’re going to be a whore for me.” Thranduil felt himself growing hard but remained completely still. In his world, whores did as they were told, not as they wanted. Elrond would have to figure that out. 

Elrond walked away leaving him on the table. Thranduil laid back down, hands under his head. When Elrond came back into the room, his coat was off, and he was hiding something behind his back. “Comfortable?”, he glared at Thranduil, “Get up!” Thranduil did as he was told. “Turn around! Put your hands above your head! Interlace your fingers!” Thranduil turned his back to Elrond, did as he was told, heard the swish of a whip through the air a fraction of a second before he felt its sting on the skin of his shoulder blades. The muscles of his back tensed involuntarily. He gritted his teeth and forced his muscles to relax. The next blow was delivered diagonally across the entire span of his back with such force that it split his skin. Thranduil’s vision blurred. He forced his eyes to open wider, and stood still as a mountain. 

Elrond’s blows came measured, rhythmical, 8, 9, 10… Thranduil lost count. His shirt was now stuck to his back as each blow drew blood. He was becoming one with the pain, getting lost in it, a trick he had learned long ago. Elrond’s body against his back and his hand around his neck brought him back, “Don’t you dare” (Don’t you dare run away into the confines of your mind), Elrond hissed. He tore Thranduil’s blood-soaked shirt off, causing blood to flow from newly torn gashes. He dipped his fingers in it, then put them to Thranduil’s lips still holding him by the neck. Thranduil licked the blood, then took Elrond’s fingers into his mouth and sucked. “You like that, don’t you?”, Elrond was mesmerized, going back for more blood. Thranduil was silent, licking, taking Elrond’s fingers deeper into his mouth. 

This… This was making Elrond’s already hard cock ache. He pushed the king to his knees. How impossibly perfect he looked with his silver hair, pale face, grey eyes and his perfect lips stained red. He looked like a jungle cat. Elrond couldn’t take it. 

“You will take me in your mouth, whore”, Elrond barely dared, wouldn’t dare any other day, he knew the king’s mouth opened for no one. He fully expected that Thranduil would put an end to this game right here right now, especially considering what he had just done to his back. But Thranduil didn’t. He untied Elrond, looked at his freed erection for a brief second, then licked the pre-cum like a tame house cat. Elrond gasped. Stunned, taken off guard. Thranduil was looking at him under fair eyelashes as he continued licking then took the head into his mouth and down he went. Elrond was suddenly furious. For the king’s obedience, and all the more that that apparently well-practiced mouth was going to make a quick job of this. Thranduil looked down, going down on Elrond’s cock, all the way down. Elrond swiped a cat o nine tails, which he had also brought earlier and lashed Thranduil over the right side of his face, neck and collarbone. It took all 3,000 years of control and presence of mind for the Mirkwood’s king not to bite down in simple reflex. The blow was unexpected and it was excruciating; it caught his sensitive ear, it cut his cheek. But with Elrond’s entire length in his mouth, he didn’t bite. He just stopped what he was doing, and was yanked away by his hair to kneel before Elrond for the effort. 

Thranduil was angry now. A lethal storm raged behind his eyes. Being beaten to a pulp was one thing, having his face slashed because you fear losing control was another. And yet he didn’t move. He crushed the anger under his indomitable will, but his eyes turned to hard steel and he was not playing any more. If Elrond wanted to fight him, so be it. Let him break against him. Elrond struck him again, across his chest this time. And again. And again. Savagely, wanting a response, a break in the stone. Thranduil took the blows and didn’t move. Didn’t wince, didn’t tremble, didn’t as much as hold his breath. He felt blood flowing from the new cuts and he felt himself growing hard on anger, defiance and premonitions of Elrond’s self-inflicted shattering, all intermingled in his mind. He would not fuck Elrond tonight, he was well aware of that, but that made no difference. Thranduil’s mind was a weapon. He could wait. He held Elrond with a stare like a spider does a fly and he kneeled perfectly still, unmoving under the tirade of the cat o nine. 

“Get up”, Elrond said, changing tactic. Thranduil stood. Elrond grabbed the obvious bulge in his leggings, rubbed his hand along Thranduil’s constrained length. Thranduil closed his eyes, fighting to remain still, his swollen cock throbbing against Elrond’s hand. Elrond moved to stand behind him, grinding his own erection against Thranduil’s ass, both of his hands now stroking Thranduil firmly, unlacing his leggings, skin touching skin. Thranduil’s nerves were on edge. Elrond’s chest rubbing against his mutilated back sent flashes of searing pain through him, which clashed and merged with spasms of pleasure wrung forth by Elrond’s hands. Yet, the Elven King stood perfectly still and remained perfectly quiet. He would not move. He would not release a single sound. 

It drove Elrond mad. “All you have to do is ask. Ask and I shall give you what you want. Show me how much you want it, how much you need it, and I will give you release”, he whispered to him. He licked the blood on Thranduil’s face, stroking the king harder, faster, his own cock sliding between Thranduil’s legs, against his heavy sack. Thranduil wanted. Needed. His body was screaming. But he would not ask. He closed his eyes, bit his tongue, swallowed blood, listened to the deafening beating of his own heart, focused on all the pain his nerve endings delivered in abundance and produced not a sound. Elrond had a lot to learn about his whore. 

When the cat o nine struck his swollen erection, the pain exploded from his groin up his stomach into his throat, grabbed around his hips up his back, and down his legs. It shook him through the core. His body became fire. He screamed, but he screamed in silence. His mind split. A part of him was still present, aware of falling to his knees, and getting up again, and being struck again, and again, the blows forcing his semen to fall to the floor in slow agonizing droplets providing only tantalizing agony without release. The other part of him was gone. Becoming pain itself, Thranduil swam through his own nerve endings, letting the pain wash over him, letting it take him, merging with it, until he could feel nothing. 

But Elrond knew and would not let him go. Elrond brought him back again, into his body, into sensation. Elrond’s tongue was in his mouth, pleading, needing, and Thranduil responded. He came back. Because Elrond asked. Because Elrond was not done. “I want to fuck you, please let me fuck you, just this once”, Elrond was whispering to him, bending him over, placing his hands on the edge of the table, telling him to hold on. And Thranduil didn’t resist. 

And he held on when Elrond slammed himself all the way into him in a single thrust without any preamble. He arched his back, he bit his tongue as pain ripped through him, but he didn’t go away again. Instead, he pushed back and met Elrond thrust for violent thrust. He knew Elrond was tearing him inside. He could feel it. But instead of trying to minimize the damage, he grabbed Elrond’s hips and pulled him deeper into him, bruising both of their hips riding pain through torture to oblivion and finally unhinging Elrond. Once engaged, into anything really, Thranduil did not play safe, and he did not stop half-way, he took the thing to extremes and he finished it, come what may. Elrond would have to learn that as well. 

Losing all control and desperate not to, Elrond grabs Thranduil by the hair, pulls his head back in a violent jerk and forces him to his knees. Still holding him by the hair, he circles to the front of him and without as much as looking at him thrusts his throbbing cock, so close to exploding, deep into the back of Thranduil’s throat. He wants a reaction. He knows that nobody fucks the king’s mouth. He expects Thranduil to gag, cough, to try to back his head away, grab at him with his hands, to at least flinch. He wants to see tears in the king’s eyes. Thranduil doesn’t flinch and he does not gag. Elrond drives his hips back and forth pulling Thranduil’s head into every thrust, making him swallow his entire length every time. But it is him who’s coming undone under the unwavering gaze of the Mirkwood king’s steel grey eyes. Grey like storm clouds, like hurricane skies. Grey, defiant, unbroken and staring through Elrond’s soul as his mouth and throat are being violated. 

And Elrond can no longer hold back. He is filling the king’s throat with his seed, his shaking hands holding Thranduils mouth firmly to the base of his cock, wracked through and through by spasms of the orgasm. He doesn’t remember ever coming this hard. He knows he screamed. Maybe he screamed Thranduil’s name, he hopes he didn’t. He knows Thranduil can’t breathe the way he has his head pinned. He knows he will choke since the king would not be brought so low as to swallow. He doesn’t care. He wants to look into those eyes and finally see defeat, He wants the goddamn beautiful king to make a sound. Thranduil swallows because he refuses to choke, he can’t breathe so he does not. He’s losing consciousness, liminally aware of blood running down his thighs, released from the ripped up insides of him as his muscles unclench, when Elrond finally releases him, but he never makes a sound, and he doesn’t fight.

When he is free, he simply takes a deep breath, wipes his lips with the back of his hand, straightens his back, holds his head up and remains on his knees his eyes looking back up at Elrond, his face completely unreadable.

Elrond staggers back, some from exhaustion, some from shock at what he’d actually done, he is not a monster, at least he thought he wasn’t, some from utter disbelief at Thranduil’s behavior. He expected a fight, alternatively an attempt at being reasoned with, anger, something. Anything other than this. He sits himself in a chair behind him and facing Thranduil,

And he stares at the king, now at eye level with him. Thranduil hasn’t moved. Elrond is no longer angry, he doesn’t know what he is, maybe he is beginning to be worried, maybe a vague horror is descending upon him. Thranduil’s body is a wreck. There is a deep gash across his right cheek, still bleeding. When did he strike him on the face? Dear gods. He doesn’t remember that, but he sees the truth plainly written on the side of Thranduil’s neck and collarbone as well, an ardent strain of the cat o nine must have hit his face. He let him destroy that beautiful face, just like that. His lips are bruises. His throat must be worse, thinks Elrond. His chest and upper arms are a map of gashes, some deep and still bleeding, some angry red welts, some already turning to bruises. He looks worse from the back, that much Elrond remembers. He is trying to remember just how many blows. Countless. Too many. Elrond looks lower, to the king’s groin and has to force himself not to look away. The king’s cock is also a mess of gashes and blood. There’s blood everywhere. There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood running down Thranduil’s legs. Elrond’s head is swimming with the knowledge of how much pain he must be in. 

“Say something”, pleads Elrond.

Nothing.

“How could you let me do this to you? Why would you let me do this to you? How can you stand still as a statue while somebody rips your body to shreds? The pain must be terrible. You don’t say a word, you don’t flinch, you don’t even change your expression, you just take it…” Elrond’s voice is raising, his heart speeding up. He wants none of it, so he trails off. Besides, this has no point, Thranduil’s face is an unresponsive mask.

“That is why I am The King.” Thranduil’s words come slowly, quietly but are clear, and as silken as ever. His voice is horse, but it does not shake. And Elrond understands that he speaks quietly simply because he feels no need to shout. The King is still on his knees, but he might as well be sitting on his throne. Elrond is speechless, caught somewhere between admiration, utter respect, abhorrence and something like fear. Does blood run through his veins? Or the North Wind? Who is this creature? Or is a better question - What?

“My friend”, adds Thranduil after a pause. And there is no malice in the words. No anger. No sarcasm. As impossible as it sounds, Thranduil is being honest. There is no game behind this. Elrond feels like crying. And he feels like beating Thranduil to a pulp all over again. He wants to take him in his arms and never let him go. He wants to never see him again. “Thranduil is a force of nature”, words he heard long ago echo in his mind, “To be touched at one’s own risk”. Touched and burned, thinks Elrond. Enchanting, dangerous and lethal like the last remaining light. 

The King continues, “Not somebody, just you.” There’s a long, deliberate pause before the king continues. “I will be your whore, Elrond, if that is what you want me to be.” He pauses again, his eyes slowly changing back to their normal lighter grey, or maybe Elrond only imagined it. Elrond tries to protest, but one look from the king changes his mind. Thranduil makes him wait before he continues, “As to why? Because I can take it and you apparently need it.” 

Elrond can’t take it, “You can take it? You won’t be able to walk! You won’t be able to sit, or take a bath, or…”

Thranduil smiles, whispers, “Watch me”. Yet still he does not move. Instead he continues, “You cannot break me, Elrond. You cannot hurt me enough. This is nothing. This will heal. And this, you and me, this is not love, but I have never seen so much passion in you, and so much freedom, as I have just now. This I would give you, my friend. This is what I _can_ give you. Elrond, I will let you do whatever you will with me. Only not for petty quarrels, idiotic and trivial stupidities. Those are human games. We are elves. We shall act like elves.”

Elrond is humbled into silence. Embarrassed. He knows all this, he is old enough. He tries to begin apologizing, but a look from Thranduil says “Don’t”. And he remembers, Thranduil doesn’t do apologies. He had told him once that he saw no point in apologies, regrets, or backwards glances of any sort. So Elrond only nods. 

Elrond looks at the still motionless king for a while longer. He truly is magnificent, larger than life, he thinks. How anybody can look regal, completely in control and breathtakingly beautiful on their knees covered in whip marks, blood and bruises is beyond him, but Thranduil does. Elrond doesn’t know what happens next but he begins to understand why the wood elves of Mirkwood although terrified of their king are also unquestioningly loyal, ready to kill for him and die for him. What he is - is Strength cast into flesh. As if as long as he exists, one is safe and beauty and even goodness will prevail. Elrond snaps out of this reverie as if from under a spell. 

“Come”, he is raising finally from his chair, extending a hand to the king, “let me put you in the bath, then try to heal some of this… disaster”, gesturing widely in the king’s direction. “Can you walk?” Elrond doesn’t think he can and is ready to half-carry him. Thranduil takes the offered hand, but doesn’t use it for a crutch, he gets up on his own, and he walks with a barely perceptible limp and without a sigh. He stands while Elrond gets the water ready, and he lowers himself in. As the warm water hits his skin, he closes his eyes, but he does not gasp. While Elrond washes him, he keeps his eyes closed, unflinching. He lies still while Elrond rubs healing salves into the thousand cuts. He agrees to sleeping in Elrond’s bed, but he will not sleep in Elrond’s bed clothes and no, he does not have any of his own. Elrond made him bleed, Elrond will deal with blood on his pristine white sheets. 

Now that everything’s quiet, Elrond doesn’t really dare touch him without a specific reason. For everything the king had said, he has no idea what Thranduil is actually thinking. Ever. He sounds sincere, but the elf’s mind is a labyrinth under lock and key. What he says is the first evening star, what he doesn’t are all the stars one cannot yet discern and all the darkness in-between. He also has no idea what he himself is thinking or feeling. What perpetuated this entire madness tonight? Was it madness? Will he do it again? Does he want to? Does he feel guilt? Thranduil is confusion, beautiful confusion now stretched next to him like a sleepy panther. Elrond doesn’t want to think. So, he places the lightest of kisses upon his forehead as he wishes him pleasant dreams. Thranduil catches him, his hands covering both his ears, pulls his mouth to his own. It’s not a sexually charged kiss, but it is long and warm and strong. It warms Elrond’s heart. As their lips part, Thranduil whispers, “If you start handling me like a porcelain doll now, I’m leaving. I told you that you couldn’t break me once, I am not telling you again”, before letting him go. “I know”, Elrond thinks, realizing, shocked, that guilt is at least one emotion he does not feel. 

The only indication of how much pain the king really is in Elrond ever sees is later in the night when Thranduil, thinking Elrond is deep in sleep, gets out of bed, taking a long time to raise, his face a grimace of pain, the glamor he always wears slipping, terrible scars visible over his face, his chest, his shoulder. Not ones left by Elrond, older ones, deeper ones, desecrating skin, muscle and bone, ones that will never heal. Elrond had heard tales but had never seen it. He doubts anyone still alive in Middle Earth has. He begins wondering how they still effect the king, then stops. Some thought are better left alone. 

He watches Thranduil walk very slowly, his steps careful, deliberate, to the table on which an untouched bottle of wine is still standing, along with food they never touched, and pour himself a large glass. Drains it. Pours another. Drains that too. Another, which he takes outside, drinks quickly while looking over the balcony railing, his features relaxing then, glamor settling back in place. He comes back for the rest of the 2 liter bottle, sits on the railing leaning back against the wall, carefully, too carefully, and drinks straight out of the bottle, but slowly now, tasting the wine, enjoying it. Elrond wants to go to him, talk to him, kiss him, hold him. But he doesn’t. He lets him be. Thranduil neither needs nor wants company. If half the rumors are true, he’ll stay there most of the night, drinking, staring into the night, his thoughts only ever known to himself. 

Tomorrow they’ll both pretend that each slept peacefully through the night. Thranduil will pretend that he does not hurt. And Elrond will pretend to believe him. Then again, after what he saw today, Elrond entertains the idea that it is entirely possible that what The King wills to be, becomes.


End file.
